In my dream, we’re old. Much older than we are right now. Your hair is much greyer, mine still the same. We both have more wrinkles and laugh lines and frown lines. The whites of our eyes have dulled, our bones and muscles ache.
The girls are grown and gone and living lives of their own. They have families, they have homes, they have careers. They are strong women and although we have no need to worry about them, we still do. Parents will always worry about their children. But they’re happy, that we don’t question. They’re happy because we raised them with unending, unconditional love. We taught them to be what they want, who they want. To love who they want. To respect and to accept nothing less than respect in return. To be kind and thoughtful and hardworking. We taught them to love, by loving them. They’re ok. We did right by them.
We’ve lived a full life, in my dream. We finally got around to doing some travelling, we’ve made some friends – a few, we’re still us after all – and our big house is no longer ours. We live modestly, finally, because we don’t need much. We’ve got each other. Our tv, too, but mostly each other.
And we love each other still. It’s not just comfort that keeps us together. We love each other. It may not be the same love as when we were young, because love changes. It grows, it ebbs and flows, it evolves. The love a person has for a brand new crush is much different from that between two partners who have been together as long as we have in my dream. Our love, the love between Old Us, runs deep and steady. It’s exists without purpose, without necessity, without thought. It’s just there, like our blood, in our blood, pulsing around inside of ourselves as though it’s been there forever. It’s as much a part of us as anything else.
In my dream, we are old. Together.